


people are crazy

by tigriswolf



Series: Alternate Universe [85]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Big Brothers, Episode: s01e15 The Benders, Gen, Ghosts, Insanity, Mild Language, Torture, Violence, bloody brutal vengeance, madness brought on by grief, the most dangerous game bites back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two AUs for "The Benders" with lots of violence, death, and brothers getting vengeance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sins Writ in Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Sins Writ in Blood  
> Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just for fun.  
> Warnings: AU for "The Benders"; violence; death  
> Pairings: none  
> Wordcount: 1270  
> Rating: R  
> Point of view: third
> 
> Note: Inspired by: If you hurt my brother, I will kill you all!; The Boondock Saints; and "Pollo Loco"
> 
> I wrote this about ten years ago. I've made a few minor edits.

_Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I killed three men yesterday..._

.

The first was easy, easier than he thought. A quick twist of the neck, a snap, and a large body falling like timber to the floor. The first was quick, relatively painless, and not satisfying at all.

The first was only just that: the first.

.

_I have never been to confession before._

.

The second was fun. The second involved an axe and a knife, a blade honed sharp enough to cut bone. The second was lingering, a death that was stretched out over hours, and still not long enough.

 _You killed my brother_ , he whispered in the dying man’s ear, and the soon-to-be-corpse whimpered. _I keep my promises._

 _Please_ , the fucking murderer gasped out, _end it._

And he laughed, oh how he laughed, bitter and pained, and the edge of madness loomed. _I will. I’ll end it when I choose to._

And the bastard’s eyes rolled up in his head, unable to take anymore.

.

_Father, am I damned? I killed a girl, too, you know._

.

For the third, he was no longer an innocent in the art of killing humans. For the third, the one who had pulled the trigger, he used a saw and removed all limbs from the man’s quivering body.

It was slow going, bloody, and he relished every minute of it.

 _Please_ , the man gasped, _please!_

And he laughed again, pulling back the saw and grabbing a spoon. _My brother, you know_ , he said conversationally, _he didn’t like to think about killing humans. He thought we were better than that, that we’d become what we hunted if we sunk to their level. Me, on the other hand?_ He shrugged his shoulders, jamming the spoon down into the man’s chest. _I think I could get used to it._

Leaving the spoon in the man’s skin, he shoved the arms and legs off the table. _That was the fundamental difference between him and me_ , he continued, over the bastard’s groans and pleas and begging, gasping cries, _he always saw the good side. He’s always been the conscience. Even when he wasn’t around, I thought about what he’d want me to do_. He leaned over the limbless, dying, murdering son of a bitch and hissed, _And guess what, you fuck? You killed him. You killed my conscience._

A whimper sounded deep in the man’s throat and he twisted the spoon.

.

_Forgive me, Father, for I think I’ll kill again._

.

And the little girl, who laughed as the killing bullet was fired, she died last. She died after having been burned with the same poker that had scorched him. She certainly hadn’t been attractive to begin with, but she left the world far less so, and he couldn’t bring himself to care that he’d killed a child.

He stabbed her in the eye, pushed the blade through to her brain, killing her with almost no time to register pain—except, of course, for the poker, but that didn’t really count, did it?

.

_What does God—if He even exists—think of me now?_

.

And after he’d kept his promise, he went back to the barn, he picked up Sam’s body and he brought his little brother to the house. He laid Sam gently on the couch and removed all the body parts and bodies of the killers from the house, just throwing them like dirty laundry on the lawn.

He spared a brief thought for the cop—she was an innocent, just doing her job—but only that. He had more important things to worry about.

He brushed his hand across Sam’s face gently and whispered, _I’m so sorry, Sammy. I failed you_. He left the house quickly, bypassing the bodies without a second thought, and inventoried all the cars they’d stocked up. He chose a black Suburban and tried the door—it was open, so he slid in the driver’s seat and hotwired it, then drove around to the front. He left it running and slid out; no one was alive on the property but him, so what was there to worry about?

He hurried back into the house, wanting to get Sam as far away as possible. Those pieces of filth didn’t deserve to lie in the same vicinity as Sam.

.

_What can He think of me? I killed them. I told them I would, and I did—gleefully. With no regret._

.

He knew he couldn’t bury Sam—neither of them had ever wanted to lie beneath the dirt, to be worm food, to take up space.

So he drove them back down the highway, far away from the fucked-up pieces of humanity that destroyed them, and selected with care the clearing that would see the end of Sam’s physical body.

 _I know you’re there,_ he whispered to the air, setting Sam on fire. _I can feel you._

Tears slowly slid down his cheeks, as he fell to the forest floor, and watched Sam’s body burn. The fact that he could feel his brother’s spirit standing at his back didn’t mean a thing, because Sam—Sam was dead.

He finally lowered his head and cradled it in his hands, keening his pain and misery for the world to hear.

 _It’ll be alright, Dean,_ Sam whispered, kneeling beside him, and together they watched his body return to the earth.

.

_I’m not a nice man, Father. So what does your God want to do with me?_

.

He returned to their hotel room silently, abandoning the Suburban down the road. After a shower, he’d go find his Impala and pack, leave, be long gone by the time the bodies were discovered.

Sam tagged along for all of it, but didn’t speak again. He watched Dean place all their belongings in bags and put them in the Impala, watched Dean fiddle with his cell, contemplate calling Dad and decide not to.

Dean slid into the driver’s seat and gunned it; Sam appeared in the passenger seat and said, _I’m dead, Dean. But I’m not leaving you alone._

Dean smiled sadly in his direction before peeling out of the parking lot.  
.

_I killed. Happily. What does that make me? It was justice—but I made it hurt._

.

Dean drove the night through, not stopping for anything. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t thirsty, he wasn’t tired.

He got across three states before seeing the church. It was Catholic and he wasn’t, but he figured that didn’t matter. He needed to talk to someone besides Sam’s ghost. 

A priest was as good as any.

.

_I keep my promises, Father. They didn’t listen._

.

Dean silently walked into the church, slipped into the confessional, and started talking. He didn’t want forgiveness, not really, because he didn’t regret it. And—he felt more satisfaction from the deaths of those four sick fucks than he did for any non-human monster he’d ever killed.

And if that made him sicker than them—so be it. Sometimes evil came in human form, and it all needed to be eradicated.

.

_They were warned, Father. And they didn’t heed it._

.

Dean slipped out of the confessional and out the church, back into his car, and was gone before the priest knew it. The poor man hadn’t a clue what to do, but it honestly didn’t matter.

Dean was out of the state before sundown, heading to California, looking for evil along the way to kill.

If Dad was still there—he had explaining to do.

Sam’s ghost rode shotgun, and they reminisced; Dean asked if Sam minded what he’d done in his name, and Sam shook his head.

_They deserved it, Dean. Sometimes—sometimes someone is so broken inside, they can’t be fixed. They just need to be ended. And maybe... maybe this was your destiny all along. You’re still a hunter—just a different type._

_Like them?_ Dean asked, almost dreading the answer.

 _No._ The answer was quick, vehement. _Not like them at all. You’re better, and you’ll only hunt those who have earned it, not for fun. You’re a good man, Dean._

Dean smiled to himself, and the words he’d told the priest echoed between them: _I’m not a nice man, Father. So what does your God want to do with me?_

_._

_Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I killed three men and a little girl yesterday. And I know I’ll kill again._


	2. edge of a knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Edge of the Knife  
> Disclaimer: Not my characters. Just for fun.  
> Warnings: AU for "The Benders"; violence; death  
> Pairings: none  
> Wordcount: 1270  
> Rating: R  
> Point of view: third
> 
> Written 10 or so years ago.

Once upon a time, Sam would have sworn he’d never kill a child. Never snap a little girl’s neck like a twig, righteous fury and horrific pain overwhelming him.

But once upon a time is a while ago and things change.

.

Sam could return to Stanford. Could pick up the pieces of that life easily. He still remembers all the lies, the nuances of normal Sam Winchester. His friends will welcome him back with open arms and bright smiles.

But he is not that Sam Winchester anymore. He was never that Sam Winchester, not really.

That Sam Winchester had a shitty childhood, but he never hunted ghosts. That Sam Winchester had an older brother he never mentioned and a father he never thought about. That Sam Winchester fell out of trees and was in a terrible car wreck as a child. That Sam Winchester loved Jessica Moore and wanted to marry her, to grow old with her, to die in her arms.

And now Sam Winchester has nothing left but his father’s crusade and his brother’s car.

.

Sam never wanted to hunt. Even as a boy, he wanted other things, more. Normalcy, though he never truly knew what that meant.

His father couldn’t understand. John’d had normal; it did not end well. So now he sought vengeance for the love of his life, for the woman who made everything worthwhile.  
And Dean—Dean followed his father. Did what he said, when he said, and Sam never did understand why.

If Sam could talk to Dean, he’d ask and really listen to Dean’s answer.

After everything, Sam doesn’t know why Dean can’t haunt him.

.

Sam will never ever forgive himself. He will never forget what his stupidity cost him.

Dean would never have gone near that house. Never have gotten caught, tortured.

Never have gotten stabbed by that devil-spawned bitch.

If Sam hadn’t fucked up, Dean would not have died.

.

Jarrod and Lee were locked in the cage. The father was pinned by Kathleen. Sam hurried to the house to find Dean.

He found Dean’s body and a laughing child, a girl who couldn’t be more than thirteen.

She told him, while he stood frozen with horror, that the man had such pretty eyes.

Distantly, Sam heard himself ask, “Then why did you stab them?”

And the little girl said, “If they’da hunted him, he’da won.”

.

Sam regrets many things in his life. Mistakes he made, things he said, things he never got the chance to say.

He does not regret killing Jarrod. He does not regret killing Lee. He does not regret knocking Kathleen unconscious when she protested and would have fought him. He does not regret killing the father.

Most of all, he does not regret killing Missy.

.

They had wanted to hunt him. To kill him, mutilate his body, and probably eat his flesh. They were sick, twisted; from birth, they never had a chance.

They were what their father made them, fashioned and molded by his sickness.

They should never have picked Sam. He wasn’t like the rest of their prey; from six months old, he’d also been trained in the hunt.

He was better than they ever could be and he played the game by different rules.

From the moment Sam escaped the cage, they’d lost.

From the instant he found Dean, they never had a chance.

.

Sam had read books about whether or not people were what their parents made them.

Even at Stanford, he knew he was. Every move he made, every step he took, John Winchester stood in the shadows. And Dean stood beside him.

Sam is what his father made him. A hunter, a predator, a killer. Blood on his hands and blood in his eyes.

Dean had always been the better, the one who embraced John’s teaching, his crusade.

And he died, hands and ankles tied, killed by a child.

A girl.

A little thirteen-year-old girl, a product of her raising.

Sam had no sympathy. Sam did not care her reasoning or her age.

Sam snapped her neck.

Jarrod and Lee died minutes later.

Sam saved the father for last.

.

“You snuck up behind while he was fighting the others, didn’t you?” Sam asked.

The father did not answer.

“You cheated, took him by surprise,” Sam continued. “Must have hit him with something, because no way _you_ could take him down.”

The father still didn’t respond. He whimpered and shuddered and followed Sam’s pacing with terrified eyes.

“Nothing to say?” Sam mocked, smirking at the tears that ran down Pa Bender's face. “Hard to talk with no tongue, huh?” Sam stepped forward, a dirty knife held loosely in his hand. “What should I take next? Your dick, maybe? Ears? Hands and feet—what?”

He knelt before the patriarch of the hunters and trailed the edge of the knife along his jaw, whispering, “Look at you. Your sons are dead, and your daughter. You’re all that’s left. There will be no hunts, ever again.”

Pa Bender closed his eyes and Sam laughed.

“Are you what your father made you?” He stood and glanced at the knife, running his fingers along the blade. “I am,” he said quietly and smirked when the final Bender opened his eyes.

.

It was never Sam’s crusade. He never wanted to hunt.

Now he could walk away, pick up the pieces, love Jessica’s memory, and live for her.

It would be so easy.

No one could blame him.

.

But instead he sends Dean to Mom with dry eyes and waits till all the ashes blow away.

Instead he drives Dean’s car and listens to Dean’s music and wears Dean’s necklace and puts Dean’s ring in the trunk with Dad’s journal.

It was never Sam’s crusade. Mom was an abstract and Jessica’s death fresh, but now time has tempered the wound.

Sam and Dean were formed as weapons against the darkness. They were forged in fire with blood staining them far too young.

It was not Sam’s crusade.

And he’s never wished for a ghost to haunt him until Dean leaves him alone.

.

Once upon a time, Sam’d sworn he would never kill a child.

Once upon a time, Sam’d sworn he wanted normal more than anything and that he’d take it the first chance he got.

Once upon a time, Sam’d sworn Dean was invincible.

Once upon a time, Sam’d sworn Dean was forever.

But once upon a time is long ago and things change.

.

Sam killed a little girl.

Sam could go back to Stanford.

Dean died.

Dean died.

.

All Sam wants is Dean back.

All Sam wants is Dean’s stupid jokes.

All Sam wants is Dean in the driver’s seat of the Impala.

All Sam wants is Dean’s smile, Dean’s laugh, even Dean’s groan of suppressed pain.

All Sam wants is Dean to call him “Bitch.”

All Sam wants is for the sun to rise and Dean to be in the bed next to his, ready to face the day.

.

Once upon a time, Sam walked away from Dean. He went to Stanford and he had all he claimed to ever want.

Four years of silence. Every single minute hurt.

He wishes he could tell Dean that, but Dean’s gone.

.

Sam Winchester killed a little girl, her brothers, and her father.

He feels no remorse.

He’s broken every promise he ever made but one.

Wearing Dean’s coat, sitting in the driver’s seat of Dean’s car, Dean’s music blaring loud as it’ll go, he shoves Dean’s gun in his mouth and prepares to break the last.


End file.
